


Birthday Traditions

by CorpusInvictus



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Food Porn, M/M, background scotty/uhura, chocolate gets vulcans drunk, possible ooc drunk spock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 21:58:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/715551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorpusInvictus/pseuds/CorpusInvictus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Star Trek XI Kink Meme prompt: "Spock is trying to make Kirk a birthday cake. However, he's making a double chocolate cake and can't stop himself from eating some of the batter. Kirk then shows a semi-drunk Spock how cake batter can be much more delicious than actual cake with sexy times :D"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birthday Traditions

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains what may possibly be a cracky OOC drunk Spock. I've written drunk Spock before but this one is WAY more trashed than previous incarnations and I'm not sure if his characterization survived.

It is only logical, Spock decides, to attempt some manner of celebration. They've been granted shore leave while the Enterprise goes through a maintenance checkup at Starfleet Headquarters, an event which has been fortuitously scheduled just days before Jim's twenty-eighth birthday. They've spent their days productively despite technically being on vacation; during their time hiding out in their San Francisco apartment they've been attending to personal communications, a small amount of scientific research on Spock's part, and some crew reassignments on Jim's.

Jim's birthday is fast approaching, though, and Nyota has informed him of the traditional rituals associated with one's date of birth; no such rituals exist on Vulcan, though he's familiar with the concept of gift giving thanks to his perhaps overly doting human mother. He's already managed to sneak off for an afternoon of antique book hunting, his finds already neatly wrapped and hidden in Spock's half of the closet. But there's another tradition, one he never experienced as a child, which Nyota informs him is vital to the occasion.

Spock and Jim learned during their previous shore leaves together that they're both hopeless cooks. They're too long used to the food synthesizers and replicators found on starships and at Starfleet Academy, and the idea of mixing ingredients, gauging the oven's temperature, and blending flavors are all skills that are beyond them at this point. For all their brilliance in other arenas, this one is a disaster. It is at this point that Nyota points out the instant cake mix at the local supermarket, and Spock squashes the urge to kiss her. It's an overly emotional display and Scotty is a force to be reckoned with now that he and Nyota are an item.

He wonders later whether he should have invited Nyota to stay for the actual cooking since despite the package's proclamations of being an 'instant' process, it still involves the addition of ingredients and is by no means as easy as the box's instructions make it sound.

First there's the matter of the eggs; he does at least know that one is meant to break them in order to release the liquid inside, but when a few pieces of the shell fall into the mixture he is stumped for exactly two point seven minutes. Should he fish them back out? Should they be left in for some unknown nutritional purpose? Should he put in the rest of the shell along with the liquid contents? After several moments of contemplation he decides the best course would be to remove them; after all, the Enterprise synthesizers have never produced a cake with a crunchy texture that eggshells would likely produce.

Next comes the directive to grease a pan, which is infuriatingly vague on a number of levels. Humans have a propensity for referring to any number of barely related objects by the same name; he once had a week long argument with McCoy about this precise issue when he requested a 'Coke' from one of the Enterprise synthesizers. Wondering why the doctor would order an illegal narcotic as part of his meal, Spock was surprised when the synthesizer responded by producing a carbonated beverage.

Here he experiences a similar problem. A pan can refer to several different cooking implements; there's the flat, round item Jim sometimes uses to fry sausages in, a clear rectangular glass container, a flat round metal cylinder, and all of them available in any number of sizes. The photo on the box indicates a round container, which leaves out the glass item, but then he's left with the conundrum of whether to use one of the larger frying pans or the metal cylinder. Then there's the matter of 'greasing' whatever item he will eventually choose; the instructions couldn't mean the kind Scotty is perpetually covered with, but he can find no item in the cabinets that seems appropriate for the task.

He considers this as he mixes his ingredients together, so focused on the problem that his attention lapses and his thumb brushes over the surface of the batter. He manages to smear most of the mess back on the edge of the bowl, but a small amount is lodged underneath his short fingernail. Rather than going to the fuss of washing his hands, he fits his lips around his finger and sucks until the substance dislodges.

He's well aware of the effects of chocolate on his system, but the amount is so minuscule that it could not possibly begin to affect him adversely. It is, however, rather tastier than he had imagined and he spares a moment to dip his finger into the batter, purposely this time, sucking the chocolate off as he rummages through the cabinets again in an attempt to find a greasing agent.

He finally settles on what appears to be a synthesized butter in an aerosol spray form, pausing for another taste of the cake batter before tending to the problem of the pan. He finds he requires another stolen taste of batter before he decides on the metal cylinder, greasing it as instructed with the aerosol.

Then he decides it's only logical to have one last taste of the batter before it's poured into the pan.

And then he decides it's only logical to have another taste once it's there, to ensure the grease hasn't affected the flavor.

And then it's only logical to have another taste while he waits for the oven to heat, to ensure the flavor hasn't been compromised during the wait.

And then there's really no logic at all to it; it's just too delicious to leave alone.

*******

And that's how Jim finds him, about an hour later when he returns to the apartment.

Spock is no longer standing at the counter; he seems incapable of supporting himself much at all, sprawled over the tiled kitchen floor with his back against the dishwasher, long limbs in disarray around him rather than their usual elegant lines. The mixing bowl is cradled in his lap and chocolate is smeared all over his fingers, at the corners of his mouth, even a mysterious smudge on his cheek. There's an almost immaculately clean mixing spoon discarded to his left, and a faint sense of unnatural heat coming from the unused oven. The batter is still in the cake pan on the counter, a line of demarcation showing just how much of it Spock has consumed before resorting to the mixing bowl instead.

Jim can't help himself - he busts out laughing.

Spock, for his part, doesn't look particularly offended the way he usually does when he realizes he's been the butt of a joke. He doesn't look all that capable of an expression beyond the open, dazed look he's sporting presently. Dark brown eyes are dilated enough that they look black instead, eyebrows relaxed, face soft rather than stoic and severe. "Welcome birthday, Jim," he says, and then corrects himself. "Happy birthday, home." He tilts his head to the side, thrown by his own inability to speak properly.

"Spock..." Jim wheezes in between bouts of laughter. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I should think it was obvious," Spock retorts, almost offended except he's slurring his words together and seemingly distracted by a line of chocolate on his thumb, failing to explain himself further because he's too busy licking it off.

"You're baking," Jim hazards a guess, still laughing even though his gaze is glued to Spock sucking chocolate off his thumb. "Or at least that was the plan before you got trashed on cocoa."

"I am making a birthday cake in preparation for when you come home," Spock corrects him imperiously, or at least it would have been imperious if Spock would pause in his attempts to lick the mixing bowl clean.

"Maybe you hadn't noticed, but I _am_ home."

Spock looks up at him again with those wasted black eyes. "Ah. So you are," he says, and Jim starts laughing again. "If you would be so kind as to keep this a secret?"

"What, from myself?" He kneels in front of Spock and tries to gently extricate the bowl from his grasp but he's unwilling to part with it, clamping onto it with unnaturally strong fingers. "I'll try my best. Although I can't promise not to tell Bones all about this."

"As the doctor is not meant for the cake, I see no particular reason why he could not be informed." And he wipes another smear of chocolate off the bowl with his forefinger and sucks on it happily.

"I'll keep that in mind later when you get all offended about this," Jim returns. "How much of this stuff have you had, anyway?"

"I am simply cleaning the bowl," Spock rumbles, defensive even as he scrapes the last of the batter from the bottom of it.

Jim waits just long enough for Spock to suck the chocolate off his finger before leaning in for a long, exploratory kiss, licking the batter from the corner of his lips where it's stuck in a sticky mess. "Of course you are," he murmurs, reaching up to the counter and grabbing the half-empty cake pan, setting it on the floor next to him with a raised eyebrow.

"I was cleaning that, as well," Spock explains himself, licking his lips in a somewhat dazed fashion before reaching for the pan.

Jim lets him dip his fingers in, using his momentary distraction to throw a leg over Spock and straddle his lap. He grabs for Spock's wrist, pressing a kiss over the pulse point there before cleaning the chocolate off his fingers in long, obscene licks. Spock gasps quietly making no effort to hide his reaction, head thumping back against the dishwasher, hazy eyes transfixed.

"Got plenty left here to clean," Jim murmurs into the palm of Spock's hand, lips grazing his skin deliberately because he knows Spock can't repress his shudders at the moment.

"The oven-" Spock protests weakly, and he doesn't even get a full sentence out, his free hand already bunching in Jim's shirt in a vague attempt to remove it.

"Turns itself off when it senses it's not actually in use. It'll probably switch off in the next few minutes." He spares a moment to pull his shirt over his head, spares another to remove Spock's, and then his own fingers are in the batter, swirling faint designs in the pan before reaching to draw sloppy symbols over Spock's chest.

"Your cake." And it's not so much a protest now as it is a fuzzy kind of rambling, which is something he's never heard from Spock in all the times he's seen him drunk - although to be fair, he can count those times on one hand with fingers to spare. But on those other rare occasions when he's seen Spock inebriated, he's been able to speak in complete sentences. "What're doing?"

"Enjoying listening to you forget half your vocabulary." He finishes a rough, nearly unidentifiable Starfleet delta symbol over Spock's right pectoral, grinning at his sloppy handiwork before dragging his tongue over the design. It smears chocolate everywhere; along Jim's lips, over his chin and cheeks when he can't get it all with his tongue, and into Spock's chest hair as the design blurs and disintegrates.

Spock moans with a kind of desperation that makes Jim go instantly hard. It isn't anything he hasn't heard before, but usually he has to work him over for hours to get him to sound that uninhibited, wanting, _needy_. There are sticky fingers spearing into his hair, Spock's back arching into the contact. Jim can't help the smug smile pressed against Spock's nipple; not a bad reaction at all considering he's never been especially sensitive here.

"Jim," Spock whimpers into the top of his head. "J-" and he cuts himself off with a sound dangerously close to a whine, legs sprawling and scraping for leverage against the floor when Jim dips his fingers in the chocolate again and begins drawing a new symbol around his navel. It begins as a lopsided triangle, the left side larger than the right, the whole thing crowned by a rather pathetic looking round shape.

"What's this called again?" Jim grins against his chest, pressing a kiss there.

"Indefinite..." Spock clears his throat and tries again, fingers twitching and caressing aimlessly over Jim's body. "Ineffable..." He lets out a snarl of frustration, digging sudden bruises into Jim's upper arms.

"Infinite," Jim provides helpfully, nipping at his collarbone, hands smearing the base of the triangle as he works at unfastening Spock's trousers.

"Infinite," Spock mimics, drawing out the 'f' sound for longer than necessary. He can't seem to decide on whether he wants to touch Jim or assist with his own undressing, and his hands flit restlessly between the two tasks, ultimately failing at both. "Infinite combinations of infinite perversity. Diversity," Spock corrects himself.

"Close enough," Jim chuckles, sliding down Spock's sprawled body, their legs tangling gracelessly together. He leans down at an awkward angle to lick at the circular part of the symbol, chin smearing the sides of the mountain. He's almost as much of a mess as Spock is at this point, chocolate all over his face where he's brushed against his designs, in his hair where Spock's sticky fingers have been carding through it, all over their pants that they haven't yet managed to discard.

Spock seems to lose all control of his bone structure, back sliding against the dishwasher until he's almost completely horizontal on the floor, his abdominals twitching reflexively as Jim laps the chocolate off of him in long, teasing licks. And the _noises_ Spock makes like this... He's not silent in bed by any means, but one of the best parts about getting him a little bit buzzed is that he loses his inhibitions just enough to moan when he feels like moaning, to babble whatever nonsense he wants to at him. He doesn't censor himself when there's chocolate in his system, and from someone with such a ridiculous amount of self-control, freeing him like this has a heady, seductive power of its own.

Less seductive is the way Spock's head is angled weirdly against his chest (although the faint keening sound escaping his throat makes up for it somewhat). Jim tugs at him in what he hopes is a gentle fashion, but Spock's head still hits the floor with an alarming thumping noise. When his only reaction to that is the barest pause in the keening sound, Jim shrugs it off and starts working Spock's pants down his hips and legs, fitting his lips around Spock's navel and tongue-fucking his belly button, cake batter smearing everywhere as the little IDIC symbol gets wrecked beyond recognition.

Spock is making attempts to speak, mouth opening and closing in a manner reminiscent of a fish. His hands scrabble at the floor, in Jim's hair, even knocking the cake pan almost out of reach before settling on scratching shallow lines into Jim's back and shoulders. He gathers just enough brain power to whisper, "Jim, Jim..." over and over, repeating it several times before he's able to follow up with, "Pants."

"Yes, you're still wearing them," Jim grins into the sharp corner of one of his hipbones, sucking a large, olive-green mark there and delighting in the taste of his blistering skin after all that sugary sweetness he's been licking off elsewhere.

"Off," Spock tries to command, though it comes out as more of a whimpering plea. He moves to shove them further down his hips, nearly knocking the cake pan over in the process, chocolate coating his fingers once again.

Jim half laughs, half groans as he finally peels the trousers off Spock's legs. He has his gorgeous Vulcan laid out and eager for him, hard green cock standing at attention. There's a twitch to his hips despite not being touched at the moment, and Jim's weak laughter is a result of watching him suck the chocolate off his own fingers once again, dark eyes rolling back in his head as the sensations go straight to his cock. He revels in being a voyeur for a moment, hands cradling Spock's hips, thumbs tracing over the jut of his hipbones as he watches for long moments, watches the sticky fingers disappear between slick, puffy lips, watches him thrust upward at every obscene slurping noise.

Jim is a man of action, though, and he can't simply sit and watch unless he's forcibly tied down for the show. He grabs Spock's hand, pulling the fingers out of his mouth with an audible pop. "You," he rumbles, scraping his teeth over the back of his hand, "are so. fucking. hot when you're wasted." And before Spock can argue the matter, he sucks down his first and middle finger, sucking the last traces of chocolate from between them, sucking the taste of Spock's coppery saliva off of them, and then dedicating himself to long, rough licks at the pads of his fingers, his free hand pressing Spock's length against his stomach and reveling in the twitching, the thrashing, the shreds of Spock's closely guarded self-control blown to pieces around them.

"Ngh," is Spock's articulate reply. There's no trace of brown in his eyes now, his pupils blown so wide that it's a wonder he can see at all. He spreads his legs, thrusting up into the dry warmth of Jim's hand, trying to hook one leg over Jim's hip, his waist, his shoulder. He's lost a significant portion of his motor control along with his speech, though, and he ends up thrashing about mindlessly instead, trying to make his desires known through that ridiculously hot keening noise and the shuddering, shaky dance of his fingers in Jim's mouth.

"You want something?" Jim rumbles against Spock's hand, delivering a sharp bite to the fleshy bit between his thumb and forefinger, feeling his own cock jerk and strain at the desperate, guttural moan it draws out of him.

"Yes Jim, please, _please_ , Jim," Spock gasps, and that's just about the best birthday present Jim could ask for: the outright pleading and wanton desperation in his voice.

He takes Spock's fingers into his mouth again, teeth scraping over his forefinger and tongue digging roughly into the perfectly manicured cuticles. When he's got Spock moaning continuously at the attention, he releases the fingers and sucks down his cock almost to the base. The guttural cry is a welcome distraction from the sudden choking sensation as Spock's hips surge upward, and it takes all of Jim's upper body strength to keep him pinned to the floor. His upper arms shake and shudder dangerously as Spock tries to thrust into his mouth, too far gone to worry about Vulcan strength inadvertently choking him.

Spock is a quivering mess on the floor now, head thrown back and mouth open and gasping for air. He's finally managed enough motor control to press his legs against Jim's ribs, but his arms do something akin to flailing and he manages to knock the cake pan clear across the tiles. The sharp clang fails to distract either of them, Jim's lips bobbing up and down with increasing speed and pressure on Spock's cock, driving him ruthlessly toward orgasm just so he can see him break.

When Jim brushes a dry finger between Spock's cheeks and starts teasing and rubbing at the puckered skin there, Spock completely falls apart. His arms go everywhere at once, hands either cradling Jim's face or anchoring it between his legs, he's not sure which. There's insistent tugging at his hair, fingernails scraping over the back of his neck, and then pressing against his temple with almost bruising pressure. It's an uncontrolled whirlwind of a meld, devoid of the soft fuzzy affection he usually projects when he's a little drunk. Instead he overwhelms Jim's mind with the deluge of sensory feedback. Suddenly Jim feels himself pressed to the floor, feels the icy tiles against his back, the dull ache at the back of his head, the stickiness covering his dry, searing skin. His world narrows to the fire between his legs, the slick moisture surrounding him, the sense of his orgasm being drawn out of his very bones, the pressure, the heat, Jim's mouth, Jim, _Jim_...

The sensory feedback loops between them, sense to mind, mind to link, link expanding until it shatters. Jim moans and tries to swallow around him, chocolate and sweat and saliva and come smeared over his face and dripping down his chin as he draws back, pillowing his head on Spock's thigh and trying to catch his breath. He can feel the low vibration of Spock's heart kicking into overdrive in the aftermath, his chest twitching and shaking as he tries to get his breathing back under control. Jim presses a shit-eating grin against Spock's hip, letting out a low sound that could be a chuckle, could be a groan. "Some birthday. I'm filthy and I didn't even make it out of my pants."

"Nnn," is Spock's clever reply, shaky hands reaching to pull him up, tugging on him until he's draped over Spock like an overlarge, bony blanket.

"And there isn't even any cake to make up for the filth."

"Sorry," Spock slurs, and he sounds the furthest thing from apologetic as he nuzzles his face into Jim's neck, curling into him the way he always does after a thoroughly inebriated encounter with Jim.

"You aren't," he returns cheerfully, brushing through Spock's matted hair and down along his shoulders. "But if your conscience is really eating at you, we could always move this to the bed..."

Spock has fallen asleep partway through the sentence. Jim shakes his head and resigns himself to a short nap on the floor, elbows scraping painfully against the tiles.

*******

Spock only dozes for maybe half an hour before he's conscious again, the sudden restless squirming of his overheated body rousing Jim from his half-assed nap. He raises up on one elbow and grins down at him, fingers tracing through the drying chocolate mess on Spock's chest, hips pressed up against his thigh, half-hard erection rubbing against him in maddening circles. "Welcome back."

"I do not believe... I went anywhere..." His response is slow, measured. Almost painful. Upon closer inspection, there's little sign of the soft affection in his face that's usually plastered there when he's drunk.

"You okay?" Jim asks, his libido calming for a moment in favor of concern. "You look a little green."

"You are not... the slightest bit... amusing," Spock returns weakly, wincing and holding a hand to his head.

It occurs to Jim that those symptoms look familiar, and when it finally clicks he can't help the way his jaw drops. "You could not possibly have a hangover."

"I am... not convinced of that diagnosis, myself." He seems to rally, drawing in a deep breath before he speaks again. "I appear to be somewhat dizzy and disoriented. There is a dull ache originating in the back of my head. And I feel a mild sense of nausea, though that may be due in part to consuming such a large amount of unrefined sugars."

"So in other words, you got trashed on chocolate and now you're hungover." Jim softens the words by pressing his fingers against Spock's temple, massaging slow, gentle circles there. "How does that work, anyway? You only got into the cake batter an hour or two ago."

"Vulcans have a much higher metabolism than humans."

"Bullshit. All the other times you've had chocolate you've gotten all clingy and affectionate for hours after the fact."

A faint tinge of green appears high on Spock's cheeks. "Perhaps I over exaggerated its effect on me in order to benefit from a more pronounced feeling of closeness or intimacy."

Jim translates that as best he can. "You pretended to be drunk longer than you actually were so you'd have an excuse to get touchy?"

"I did not intend to become inebriated this time," Spock sidesteps the question. "I sincerely wished for you to have a cake on your birthday."

"You know, if you wanted to get all soppy and clingy, you don't have to fake being drunk for that. I promise I'm not recording this stuff in the Captain's Log or anything," Jim sidesteps again, trying to get them back on the original course of the conversation.

Spock doesn't respond to that, but a line of tension seems to dissipate from his body, loosening up his posture until he's curled up comfortably against Jim's shoulder. "You are still lacking a birthday cake," he says instead, sidestepping the conversation a second time.

Jim allows it that time. "We can go buy one pre-made at the grocery store."

A small grunt. "Nyota failed to mention that."

"Probably failed to mention the cake mixes come in flavors other than chocolate, too."

Another grunt, this one slightly disgruntled. "Indeed."

"In the meantime, I'm a mess, you're an even bigger mess, and we should probably do something about that headache if we want to attempt moving this to an actual bed."

"A long bath would not be unwelcome," Spock concedes, uncurling from Jim so he can try to get to his feet. It takes him a couple of tries and it's only when Jim stands and helps pull him from the floor that he finally manages it.

"A full size tub with actual running water and a slightly buzzed Vulcan?" Jim grins, pressing a kiss to the point of Spock's ear. "Happy birthday to me."


End file.
